


Lend a Hand

by extension_cord



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Hand & Finger Kink, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1535951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extension_cord/pseuds/extension_cord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MTMTE: Drift/Ratchet porn without plot. That's all you need to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lend a Hand

**Author's Note:**

> This was prompted by an anon on tumblr. Thank you, anon!
> 
> Disclaimer - nothing recognizable belongs to me.
> 
> Enjoy!!

* * *

"You have _got_ to be kidding.”

"You know me better than that." Drift flashed his signature grin, the one that always made Ratchet's spark flutter warmly within its casing, then added, "C'mon, hands together, out in front."

The chief medical officer grimaced, but wordlessly he complied, and soon Drift was looping a thick cable around his wrists. It was medical-grade stuff, Ratchet realized, and he made a mental note to ask Drift later about how he'd acquired it. Now, however, was not the time for that: the third-in-command, having bound the medic's wrists together remarkably tight, was pushing him backward, until Ratchet felt his aft bump against the edge of his desk. “Next time you want this sort of thing, kid, just say it _outright_ , and we’ll take it someplace else. First Aid keeps asking me why I clean my office so damn often."

"Tell him the truth," Drift murmured, lips ghosting against Ratchet's audial. "Tell him it’s because you and the third-in-command of this ship have the tendency to make a _mess_."

A shudder snaked through Ratchet's body, and then he shivered again as he felt Drift trail wet kisses down his neck, over his chestplate, up an arm — and then the ex-Decepticon's mouth arrived at his tied hands. “You’re wicked.”

"I know." Drift pressed forward, positioning himself between the CMO's legs, then slowly sucked one of the red digits into his mouth. It was a warm wetness that sent Ratchet's neural network alight with blissful sensation — a feeling which only mounted in intensity as Drift's hot glossa wrapped around his finger, moving over the individual joints and interstices. A low growl built in his throat, and as the third-in-command took a second digit into his mouth, Ratchet couldn’t help but let his cooling fans whirr to life.

"You’re a tease."

Drift smirked around the fingers, then slowly pulled them from his mouth. "I can tease you more, if you’d like."

"Dammit, Drift —" Ratchet was horrified to hear the needy whine in his voice, and he promptly silenced himself, instead shoving his bound hands back into Drift's face. That slick, talented glossa returned, lapping over each red digit, and Ratchet heard himself groan with relief. It wasn't enough, though — it never was, not even as Drift worked his lips over the hypersensitive fingertips. The chief medical officer shuttered his optics, then felt his interface paneling retract, spike pressurizing and port cover sliding away. " _Kid_ —”

Again the wet warmth of Drift's mouth left his fingers. The CMO rebooted his vision, only to see Drift leering at him. “You’ve opened up already? That’s not how this works.”

"You’re awful."

"You _say_ that.” And then Drift grinned again, before lavishing more nips and licks and kisses upon Ratchet's bound hands. His glossa swirled around one thumb, then the other — around one index finger, then the other — and Ratchet had to bite his tongue to keep himself quiet. A moan was building in his vocalizer, somewhere deep within his throat, and as Drift sucked one of his middle fingers,  _hard_ , the moan spilled from Ratchet's mouth, low and hungry. He felt something hot trickle down his inner thigh — the viscous drip of lubricant — and with a roar the medic's fans cycled on a step higher. 

Ratchet no longer cared about the desperation carried in his voice. “ _Please_.”

"Nope," Drift said between licks, "not yet." He pressed himself closer, chestplate against chestplate, one hand holding Ratchet's bound wrists while the other massaged circles against the medic’s helm. "You’re gorgeous like this."

The CMO felt another gush of hot lubricant streak down his thighs. His cooling fans were now rattling, working at their highest setting, and still his frame was running hot, enameled metal plating pinging and creaking with the heat. Ratchet bucked upward, trying to grind himself against the third-in-command, but Drift only edged away. A growl of lust-ridden frustration escaped the medic’s vocalizer. “ _Drift_ —”

"Patience," the ex-Decepticon murmured, pausing to run a long, languid lick over the back of one of Ratchet's hands. " _Patience_.”

"I don’t have _time_ for that scrap!” Again Ratchet tried to buck himself up against Drift, and again Drift denied him the contact. He whined, wrists tensing in their bonds as Drift took two digits into his mouth, sliding his glossa between them. The hand on Ratchet's head slowly fell — first caressing the back of his neck, then working along his shoulder — Drift's black digits danced across his chest armor, thumb running over the Autobrand — then brushed along Ratchet's waist, fingers following the transformation seams there. A strangled cry wrenched itself from Ratchet's throat: Drift, still lapping away at his fingers, had paused his path down the medic's body, right hand hovering above Ratchet's spike. “Kid, if you don’t finish what you’ve started —”

But the complaint died immediately when Drift's digits glossed over the red pelvic armor, fingertips stroking against the sopping rim of Ratchet's port. With a snarl, the medic overloaded, spasm after spasm ripping through his frame, transfluid striking Drift's abdomen and waist. Ratchet hissed as he yanked his bound hands from the third-in-command's smirking face, looping them up and over Drift's head. Shudders still quaking through his body, Ratchet pulled the ex-Decepticon into a wet, bruising kiss.

Gradually, Ratchet felt his frame cool — though the body pressed against him was running hot, fans whirring softly. 

Drift pulled away first, optics overbright, his mouth a sly smile. “Worth the wait?”

Ratchet scowled, but there was no ire behind it. “Kid, you’re going to be the death of me.”

"Hopefully not anytime soon," the third-in-command purred.

"No, hopefully not. Because you’re about to get a taste of your own medicine."

* * *

 

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :B


End file.
